


The Strike

by Fan_FictionGirl1



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23438104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fan_FictionGirl1/pseuds/Fan_FictionGirl1
Summary: War is ugly. The line between the two sides is more blurry than you may realize at first, and the side you are on is even blurrier.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Kill

The sky above was dark in the late joors of the Orn, the stars flickering tiny like tiny little lamps, thousands and thousands of miles away. The lights did not seem to reach the ground of the planet below, nor did the dim and flickering natural glow seem to make it any brighter. The landing site that lay under that sky barely looked like a landing site anymore. The once magnificent control towers, once a pride of this world, were now a sign of war, just like everything else. The metals that once shone now was dull and rusted, and the towers no longer stood high in the sky. In a battle, the name hidden in the thousands of names for famous or not so famous battles, the towers had been shot down, offlining hundreds in its wake. Now, ancient rubble of what was once a sign of their significance laid like an ugly, broken doll across the ground, taking its place in the graveyard that was Cybertron. Some of the structures had melted from the heat when they had been struck down, and were molded into the ground or bent terribly, sticking up like spears in the air. Several rusted and broken frames, pierced by those broken pieces, could be seen from miles around. One could not miss them, nor could one miss seeing the destruction that had laid here for eons. 

A lone Decepticon stood in the mess of a site, helm tilted up. He was not looking at the old horrors below, but rather gazing up at the barely lit sky above him. His large frame stood alert and erect, but his fire colored optics were half-closed as he looked up at the stars blinking light years away. One arm hung loosely at his side, the other bent at the elbow as his servo rested over the blaster hooked to his hip. His thick talon like digits occasionally curled upwards and then back down upon the handle of his gun, the tips of his claws tapping against the handle, a tiny ticking noise lifting softly into the toxic and clouded atmosphere around him. His dark blue and purple color scheme seemed to meld into the late Orn sky, masking him to the lazy naked optic.

He stared up at those stars, a frown upon his derma. His expression was neutral, and he said not a word, but his quiet thoughts droned in his processor, like a dull noise he could not escape. Looking up at those little lights, he remembered hearing from several hopeful bots that they were like little flickers of hope. He knew he had seen a few young Cybertronians, on both sides, stargazing when they had the time. Personally, he never saw the hope in it, nor the point. What hope could they find in those balls of fire, so far away from anything. In all honesty, all it did was remind him of how small they really were, how insignificant. Looking up at those stars now, all he could see was a cold light, a high and mighty light that thought little of them. That laughed down at them and their foolishness. 

And what foolish beings they were. 

The Decepticon let out a small sigh, closing his optics so he would no longer look at them. Though around him there was silence, there sounds in his helm that he could hear. Sounds he had to hear, no matter how much he hated it, if only to keep him devoted to his cause. The sound of death falling, and the sounds of those meeting it. With his optics closed, he could red. He allowed those things to surround him, although in reality, he really did not have that choice. He hoped they did not take him for too long. He had a job to do, and he would need to begin any breem now. 

The whistle of red and the wails of the innocent made him grow even more still. Inside, however, everything was stirring as he listened and watched. He had lost track of how many times he had been subject to this eons ago. His past, revisited over and over again, was part of him now. Something he could not escape. Something he did not want to escape. He could never forget. 

There was a sound. A different kind, one that snapped him back into real time. His optics flew open suddenly and his body moved in a blur. His plating spiked as he thrust himself into a battle ready position, both servos flying to his blaster, though he did not unhook it just yet. He scanned the area in a matter of klicks. His optics locked onto a small movement he caught in the distance. He narrowed them, the red pupil contracting in and out to give it more focus on the target. Up ahead, many yards away, he caught the frame of an average sized Cybertronian moving about, slinking around the malformed remains of the fallen towers. As it continued to lurk around slowly, he realized that it had not seen him yet.

Relaxing a bit, the Con carefully slipped into the shadows, pulling out his blaster and holding it readily at his side. He crept along the walls of the old debri as well, all the while doing his best to keep an optic on the Cybertronian he grew closer to. As he closed a few yards between them, he confirmed that there were actually two of them, both mechs. Both of them were scouting, if he had to guess, the way they moved carefully and quietly while all the while keeping a look out. There were a few times as he drew near that he had to duck or go completely still, so that they would not spot him. 

They must have gone ahead to check for any sign of ambush, he thought to himself. He had to give them credit for their tactic. The last few groups he had encountered along this site had been running out in the open, their desperate attempts not thought out at all. Something inside his spark hurt a bit, but he only pushed it away, not wishing to find out why it was there. 

The two scouts moved ahead towards the smaller ships and escape pods; the ones that remained intact. He moved along with them, close enough to keep attack but far enough so that they would not hear him. Eventually, they found a pod, hidden more towards the east of the stump of the third tower. One scout turned to the other, his words inaudible, but the message was clear. His friend nodded and quickly but carefully went back, most likely to tell the others to pull ahead. Meanwhile, the first scout began to move towards the pod again. 

When he knew the second scout was far enough away, the Decepticon began to move. He was a little less careful now, his goal no longer requiring him to be hidden and silent. He picked up his pace as he drew in on the Cybertronian that had remained behind. He charged his blaster as high as it could go. He would not need this much power for this close of a shot, but he knew that he would later. He was now only several feet from the scout, and he knew as the frame jumped and began to turn that he had heard him approaching. 

With one swift movement, while picking up his pace and moving into a run, he threw up his blaster and pulled the trigger. The sharp cry of agony wretched itself from the mech as the blast hit his shoulder plate, the full power having knocked it clean off, leaving one arm useless. Fresh Energon splattered everywhere, staining the ground and the falling scout. Before he hit the ground, the Decepticon had slung his blaster back over his hip and snatched the other’s throat in his talons. The scout choked, his life source already flooding from his intake, and pulled at the sharp digits currently squeezing the life out of him. 

The Con stared at him, and the face made the dying mech freeze. It was cold, cold and sparkless. He held no feelings of murderous glee or of regretful sadness. It was only a blank, determined glare that seemed to dig deep into the spark. The talons squeezed hard, and his other servo reached for his blaster again, but his expression remained the same. 

The frightened victim, still choking and clawing at his death, could only ask one question in his hysteria. “Wh-Who are you?” he gargled, his voice failing him due to the pressure and the Energon that flooded from his intake and slid down his chin. 

The Decepticon only glared for a few moments, and there seemed to be no answer coming. Finally, his derma opened and his voice, sullen and low, appeared. “I am Strike,” he greeted like he always did to his victims. His words were cold and held no remorse, nor enjoyment. Before the mech could make any sort of reply, Strike crushed his neck cords, breaking through the endo-frame and the proto-form. His claws tore through the fuel lines, and Energon flew from them, splattering over his servo and wrist, a few droplets reaching his face as it continued to spill. The Cybertronian went offline nearly instantly, his optics, dying of color, were wide and his mouth hung open in an eternal soundless scream of agony. His frame went limp, his arm that had been struggling to loosen the grasp falling at his side. 

Strike stared at the offline bot for a few moments more, something small stirring within him. This bot had merely been trying to safely leave their doomed home world. He had not known the bot, nor did he really care to have known him. He did not know if this bot was innocent or not, or if any of the other bots were clean off murder and death. Even the Autobot insignia that glinted on the dead one’s chest chassis, the one thing that normally made the decision of innocence for him, seemed to sour past his morals this time. Doubts that had begun to plague him returned once more, and his expression finally did falter for a moment. 

Sighing, he dropped the bot on the ground, as if it were a useless toy. He turned his helm away from the gore before him, though he was not able to escape the stains of Energon he held. The stains of death and murder, something he had only convicted against his enemies once. He once again looked up to the stars, his optic ridges furrowing a bit. Was this sorrow? Sorrow for the enemy, or for himself? The twinkling lights only looked back down at him, silent and uncaring. Maybe they did not laugh at them. Maybe they had no care for them.

Which made the world seem even more cruel.

'Pull yourself together', Strike scolded, shaking his helm in frustration and clenching his fists. 'You have a job to do. You are doing it for them. Do not falter now.'

Narrowing his optics, he allowed himself to get angry. To let the emotions of the past return, to give him back his morals. To give him back his determination, his drive, his will. He grit his denta and grabbed his blaster again, setting his digit on the trigger. This was war. Death was inevitable to those who fought it, and he would bring it to those who asked for it. Turning sharply, he rushed towards the direction he had seen the other scout go. The rest of the Autobots would be there, he knew. 

The group had been smaller than he had been informed. He had expected nearly thirty to fifty Cybertronians, but when he came to face them, the numbers were much smaller than that. He only counted eleven of them, which made twelve in total if he included the one he had offlined. The Decepticon knew just from once glance that not many of them were skilled fighters. It was a wonder they had lasted this long in the war. They all gasped and stopped short when they some him coming at them, horror dawning on their faceplates. 

He did not stop. 

Leaping into the air, he jumped onto the chest chassis of the first victim, sending them to the ground. They cried out in pain, but it was cut short as Strike placed the blaster right on the bot’s helm and pulled the trigger. Energon and pieces of endo-frame going everywhere. The loud explosion, and the shock seeing their friend’s processor blown open, caused enough distress and distraction for Strike to make a clean kill without much of a fight. He pounced off the offlined bot and pointed the blaster towards the next bot, a more sturdy and larger built mech. The shot took out his spark chamber, sending shrapnel and sparks into the air. A piece of shrapnel plunged into a femme’s optic as Strike moved past the now dead mech. She screamed in pain, trying to claw out the metal, and did not even see as her death reigned down on her.   
Another mech, so large that he was nearly the size of him, roared in rage and charged him. Strike was busy bringing down another young femme, tearing out her throat while blasting down a target that was trying to flee, but underestimated his timing. Before he could turn around to face him, the enemy had reached him, ramming his elbow into Strike’s back. The Con grunted, surprised by the force of the blow. Growling, he reached up behind his helm, grabbing his attacker’s helm and digging his talons through the endo-frame. The mech growled angrily, Energon spilling over his optics and audios, while trying to escape. Strike pulled one servo out, reaching for his blaster again, while at the same time, twisting his arm in order to spin around. He barely felt the pain ringing up his strangely twisted arm as he pulled his claws down, scraping down his helm. This time, a wail of agony left him. Strike suddenly turned as another femme charged him, the tip of his blaster against her helm and blasting her to oblivion. At the same time, he pulled his digits out of the burly mech helm, plunging them into the spark chamber and extinguishing him immediately. 

As Strike pulled out his Energon stained servo, he used the falling mech’s helm as a stepping stool, pushing off of it and launching himself into the air again. While he flew upwards, he raised his blaster, taking only a few klicks to aim before taking his shots. The bright blue blasts brought down nearly the rest of the enemy, all of them screaming as the shots reigned down on them. Only one managed to evade the blaster, screaming in terror and trying to flee. This one was not a fighter. That, or he was smart enough to realize battle would do him nothing.

Strike landed on his pedes, standing up slowly. He watched the bot, a mechling, run for a little while, trying to find cover behind the debris. He raised his blaster to end his terror, but a flash of purple stopped him from pulling the trigger. He contracted his optics, focusing on the bot before he ducked behind cover. He gasped a little when he confirmed what had caught his attention. The insignia was Decepticon. 

He faltered now, lowering his blaster. This was not the enemy. Yet the rest of them were Autobots. They were the ones he had been assigned to take down. This mechling had decided to join them in hopes of escaping. He had turned to the other side. 

According to the code, that made him the enemy. 

To Strike, he did not know.

Sighing in frustration, he aimed the blaster again and pulled the trigger, just before the mechling was able to find cover. The only sound was the blast ripping through metal, and a few klicks later, the young one clattered against the ground.


	2. Doubts

The stars had disappeared in the sky, but it grew no brighter. In the few joors between the beginning of dawn and the end of the night, the stars would leave the world above, but no light from the rising sun would come for a while longer. It left the desolate and damaged plains of Cybertron even grimmer. The old wounds of war would scream at the onlookers, and the darkness would drag them down inside. Flying above it was a depressing thing, if you had the spark to feel that sort of thing in a time like this. 

This was Strike’s least favorite time of the Orn. The darkness that could not be helped was useful; it made for silent kills, which were always much easier and cleaner. The light of the stars was no longer above him as well, and it brought less of a sense of smallness without them watching him. Yet the ghastly air surrounding the planet and the skies he flew in were like several added weights to his spark. Not only was the toxic atmosphere eventually going to poison his vents, but it left a heavy feeling inside him. 

Long ago, he would have relished this time of Orn. The night was when he worked best, where he could exact his will upon those who were deemed murderers. The darkness would take him and drive him to his goal, brought out through Megatron’s orders and the Decepticon cause. For so long, the darkness was his home and he did not wish to leave.

Why was it, after so long, after so many thousands of years of the same thing, he was growing restless and uncomfortable in that home? That darkness he had cherished was still there, but now it a curse he could not get rid of, something that had changed over time. It had morphed into his own kind of darkness, something he held, instead of it holding him. He did not like overseeing it or controlling it. Once a deed was done, using that darkness he contained, it left him feeling doubt. Was this darkness the cure to his pain? Was the cause he followed the cause of that darkness?

The bulky winged vehicle soared through that empty sky, the sound of his engine the only thing that kept Strike from believing he would be swallowed up by the sky. He only flew through that sky for near twenty breems, but it felt like an eternity alone to him. He almost felt relieved when he saw the refuge up ahead, a short, rusted tower that remained intact, for the most part. He transformed in midair, spinning a little before locking his optics on his target. He landed on the open landing deck that stuck out on the west side of the building. It wobbled a little from his weight, which was no surprise, given the state of his surroundings. He stood straight slowly, taking an inward vent before parting his derma and exhaling. His optics scanned everything around him, but the area was empty. No one had come to see him return, which was not surprising. Instinctively, he reached for the blaster at his hip to check if it was still there. His servo rested over it’s hilt as he left the landing deck and walked into the dimly lit building on the fourth floor. There, he was no longer alone.

Starscream, the Decepticon leader’s scrawny second in command, stood leaning against the door across the large room. He turned his helm, his wings perking slightly, when Strike entered from the deck outside. The seeker frowned heavily and pushed himself off the wall, uncrossing his arms and approaching the mercenary with an air of smug authority. Strike had to refrain from rolling his optics. He did not have the time to play silly games with an attention-seeking suck up. 

“Is there something the master requires, Starscream?” he asked calmly, his deep voice smoothly rolling off his glossa. This question was only moot; he knew that the thin mech was only lurking around in wait for him. If there was anything Megatron needed of him, Strike already knew what it was. He stopped just in front of him, standing a few helms taller than the other Con.

Starscream narrowed his optics, his overly large optic ridges furrowing deeply. “You are over a Joor late,” he seethed, taking one of his long, sharp digits and jabbing it at Strike’s chest. “Megatron expected your report a long time ago, and you have yet to deliver it!”

Strike glared at the SIC coldly, his digit twitching in annoyance ever so slightly. “All the more reason for you not to waste my time with your whines of complaint,” he spat, his tone changing from mellow to icy in klicks. He did not wait for Starscream to move out of the way, sidestepping him and allowing his arm to shove the mech aside harshly. 

Starscream grunted as he was moved, his wings flaring in anger. “How dare you!” he shrilled, storming over and blocking his path yet again. “I am your superior officer, Strike.” Seething, he jabbed a digit at him again, this time poking his upper shoulder, though he had to reach up to do so. “Do not undermine me!”

At first, Strike acted as if the smaller bot was not there, though he was growing more annoyed that he was unable to keep moving. However, when the thin, sharp digit tapped against his armor, he stiffened, taking a sharp intake of air. Starscream seemed to sense this, flinching a little and drawing his servo back again. Strike was not normally one to lose his cool, but when he did, it was dangerous to whoever happened to be in his way. Ever so slowly, the red optics of the larger Con went down to the seeker, one optic ridge raising dangerously. The atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken, making the smaller bot gulp nervously.

“It seems I have to repeat myself,” Strike said, his voice low and quiet. Narrowing his optics, he leaned over his current annoyance, towering over him and keeping optic contact. His faceplate was mere inches away from Starscream’s, who tried to lean farther and farther back, only for the dangerous Con to follow him down. “Do not waste my time with your petty whines,” Strike seethed through gritted denta, his optics narrowed into slits. “I will report to Lord Megatron when needed.”

For a moment afterwards, there was a gap of choking silence. Starscream shivered as he felt a chill go through his entire frame, from the bottom of his pedes to the tips of his digits. The thickness of danger in the air could have made him sweat, if Cybertronians were capable of it. Chuckling nervously, the seeker surrendered, stepping to the side and gesturing for Strike to move on. “Of course, of course. You always have been one of our most diligent and loyal subjects,” he added in praise, his voice shaking. 

Strike stood up straight once more, following Starscream with his optics for a moment, rather than leaving. “I belong to Megatron. Not to you,” he said, the same chill in his voice that made the other shake fearfully again. Before any other words could be said, the larger Con turned and exited the room. Starscream watched as he left, noticing uncomfortably as his servo left the hilt of his blaster that was connected to his hip, something he had not taken notice of before. 

Strike walked through the dark halls in silence, his anger sizzling down as he moved. Starscream was one of the few bots that could get on his nerves and alter his mood rather suddenly. The seeker was too shifty, too grey. His morals were so blurry it was as if the SIC himself could not find them or stick to them. It made him an untrustworthy and loathsome ally, one that Strike did his best to avoid all contact with. Unfortunately, due to Megatron’s close fascination with Strike and his work, the two of them were often placed in the same general vicinity. Strike had even been so unfortunate enough to have fought in several battles with him throughout the course of the war. None of the memories of those battles were good ones.

Although, lately, no memories of Strike’s had given him any sense of pleasure of self-fulfillment. They were either hard and hollow, or like a long-suffering weight.

There were only a few other Cons wandering in the halls, most of them Vehicons, while a few special soldiers were around. Not many Decepticons remained on Cybertron anymore, only those Megatron deemed necessary to stay. The others had all left this planet a while ago, the warlord sending them to posts around the galaxy until he had further use of them. The few that wandered the halls most likely had their own parts to play. A few Vehicons were talking around in patrols, while others bustled about, likely heading to further targets that were assigned to them. The walls around them and the floors below them creaked and strained nearly constantly, but after several Mega-orns in this structure, many had become used to it. 

Strike turned one last corner, his optics sliding over to the closed door of the control room. He stopped just in front of it, standing as straight and poised as he could. Taking a small intake of breath, although he did not necessarily need it, he lifted his servo and rapped on the door heavily, to alert Megatron of his presence. 

“Enter,” came the warlord’s gravelly voice from inside. 

Strike did as he was told, pressing his servo against the scanner by the entrance. It blipped for a few klicks before it turned green and shrilled once. The door creaked, rust falling from the edges, before it opened with a squeaky whoosh. The room was the largest in the building, with several old consoles and cracked screens along the walls. This had once been a take off control room, one of the smaller and less populated ones that was mostly used for smaller transports, in the long-ago years before the war. Now, the wall facing where the sun normally rose was a blown to pieces, the large gaping whole seeming to take half the space of the area. Pipes and metal structures bent at awkward angles hung over the edge. Looking over it, you could see the drop below. 

Many Decepticons questioned why Megatron had decided to use this room out of all them for his personal quarters and war room. Because of the open wall, they feared that their leader could be shot down or have an Autobot bring a surprise attack upon him. Many had thought he had only picked it because it faced almost all the landing areas across the plains. They assumed that he chose it because he wanted to keep a watchful optic over the course of the attempted escapes. While this was a tactical move, and most likely one of the reasons Megatron resided there, Strike knew it was not the real motive. The titan had chosen the control room as a power move, an intimidation and taunting move. Megatron trusted that no one would be able to strike him at a time like this, even out in the open, and was almost daring someone to go ahead and try. This was a display of confidence and power, and it was a good one. So far, despite how close many Autobots had come to their refuge, none had taken that chance. 

The former gladiator turned as Strike entered, his servos folded behind his back. “Ah, Strike,” he said smoothly, a small grin, though not a comforting one, sliding over his features as he faced him. 

The subordinate slowly went down on one knee, bowing his helm while resting his servos on the ground in a submissive manner. “I have come to give my report for my latest assignment,” he said dutifully. He then said nothing else, waiting for Megatron to give him permission to speak. His optics remained glued to the floor, his expression neutral and hard. 

“Rise, Strike,” Megatron said in an assuring tone, gesturing with his servo for him to stand. Strike did as he was told, slowly getting to his feet. The dark blue and purple Decepticon was not that much smaller than the titan, in both height and build. It was what made him such a fearsome Con, well known throughout the ranks, even though he himself did not hold one, and only took orders from Megatron.

The warlord said nothing for a moment, looking him over, his optics stopping at the Energon stains that discolored the other’s servos. “It seems that you performed your duty well,” he praised, turning and walking over to an old counter, recently cleaned. 

“There was no bot left behind,” Strike replied simply.

Megatron raised an optic ridge as he smirked. “Of course not,” he chuckled darkly. He took a cloth, damp with cleaning liquids, in his servos and approached his subordinate again. “You are never one to leave a job unfinished.”

The other merely nodded. “A job unfinished is not your verdict, nor is justified,” he growled, clicking his glossa in disdain slightly.

This time, the former gladiator let out a short burst of raspy laughter. “Well said, Strike,” he said, his voice sliding over his words like hot butter. He calmly held out the cleaning cloth, gesturing for him to take it. “Clean your servos. We don’t want the Energon clogging your hinges, now do we?”

Strike’s optics flickered to Megatron, to the cloth, to Megatron again. Without breaking optic contact with the warlord, he took it out of his servos slowly, nodding once. “Thank you, Lord Megatron,” he said, his voice a little lower. He began scrubbing the drying Energon off his digits, finally breaking optic contact as he focused on what he was doing.

For whatever reason, cleaning away the Energon brought a huge wave of relief over him. As he watched the bright blue smear and disappear from his talons, he felt his shoulder plates relax and his brow unfurrow slightly. He had not realized that the weight of the kill had been so heavy. Where they getting heavier each time he offlined a bot?

“Report?” Megatron said simply, raising an optic ridge. 

“I encountered several teams of Autobots in landing areas twelve, twenty-seven, and thirty,” he said immediately, his voice level and dull as he finished one servo and moved on to the other. “Each of your informants proved sound, except for one group in landing pad thirty. They were heading for the right ship, but there were fewer Autobots than I was told. There were only eleven.”

Megatron let out a snort of disapproval. “I do believe Starscream reported that to me,” he said darkly, nearly spitting out the SIC’s designation.

At this, Strike looked up, frowning deeply. “Then I am not surprised the information was inaccurate,” he growled, shaking his helm. Once again, he turned his attention back to cleaning his servo. “Pardon me if that was too bold.”

Megatron laughed again, a dark and brutal one despite the fact that it was humorous. “Never to bold to be pardoned, Strike,” he said as he turned, placing his servos behind his back again as he looked out of the gaping whole. “So, all went well, then? No pods took off?”

“None, my lord,” the other Con replied, shaking his helm. He finished cleaning his servo, holding it out and extending his talons a little to get a better look at them. No Energon remained behind, and he sighed softly in content. He felt better now that he was clean of the dead’s life source. For him, especially for the past several cycles, it felt disrespectful to those who had moved on to joint he Allspark, even if they had been monsters while they were online.

A silence stretched between the two Decepticons for several klicks. In the last of those moments, Strike wondered if the warlord was signifying that he was finished with him. Perhaps he was going to get his next assignment later. He turned to leave the war room, but it was just then that Megatron finally spoke. 

“And there was no sign of the Ark?”

Strike froze mid-turn. Ah, the Ark. The Autobots’ last hope of escape. The giant ship, from what they had been told, was meant to carry a mass of Autobots off their doomed planet. An Autobot prisoner, long since disposed of, had handed them the blueprints, and the Decepticons were all fairly surprised at its size and firepower. However, they learned only after the prisoner was offlined that the ship had already been built and planned on leaving Cybertron and Orn now. Decepticons had been in a mass hysteria over the past few mega-orns searching for the Ark. Megatron had overthrown and destroyed every one of the airports on the planet over the course of that time, yet the ship they hoped to destroy had been at none of them. 

The current landing port they were residing in was the last on the planet. The Ark had to take off here, which meant it had to be here. How the Autobots were managing to hide a giant ship like that was a mystery. Some Decepticons, namely the ever seemingly ignorant Starscream, had asked if the Ark even planned on leaving from a port. The idea had been considered for a brief time, but after another look at the blueprints of the ship, it was deemed impossible for the Ark to take off without the proper materials and tools only found in airports. 

The Ark had to be here. Decepticons sent out to take out little squads of Autobots that hoped to take a smaller ship off-word were also assigned to keep an optic out for the ship at all times. Some parties were assigned just to search for the Ark alone, yet none of them had returned yet. Megatron was beginning to grow into a frenzy and panic, and that was dangerous.

“No, Lord Megatron,” Strike replied after a moment, turning back. “I did not find any sign of the Ark.”

A curse left the warlord as he shook his helm in frustration. Strike was lucky this was the only reaction he was getting out of him. “Very well. You will be given your next assignment in a few joors.” Megatron did not turn around, instead continuing to gaze out the wall. 

“Yes, my lord,” he replied simply, once more turning to leave the room. He was nearly out the door when something stopped him. Several things had been running around in his processor for so many cycles, but today, one thing was bothering him terribly. Since the kill, he could not shake it. He was almost always breaking inside, yet this was tearing him up more than he thought it would. It felt like his morals were dying the more it bugged him. His servo gripped the rim of the doorframe tightly, denting the metal and cracking it because of its old structure. “Lord Megatron.”

Megatron was slightly surprised that the Con had spoken to him directly. Strike always waited for him to speak first, and it was rare for him to say anything for himself. He turned with his optic ridges raised, wondering what his loyal follower had to say. When he saw him, something made his spark skip a beat out of fear. The Decepticon looked.. troubled. Strike was always known to be fully determined to his ideals, never wavering, never questioning. Yet this looked like something was fighting within him. This was a danger to Megatron. “Yes, Strike?” he asked calmly, his voice low. 

Strike did not turn around, staring at the floor with tortured optics. “The last squadron I offlined,” he started, his deep voice betraying him a bit. “There was someone with them. Someone I did not expect.” His servo was beginning to shake as he gripped onto the doorframe harder. Why was this hurting him so much?  
Megatron lifted a ridge, waiting for Strike to continue. “And who are you speaking of?” he asked slowly, a bit of a dangerous feel returning to his gravely tone.  
Strike sensed it and tried to seem more indifferent on the matter. Portraying his doubts to the warlord was a dangerous move; and yet he felt as if he had to voice the matter. “No one significant, finally,” he said finally. He eventually turned his helm to Megatron, his derma set in a frown. “There was a Decepticon fleeing with them. A young one, but one of our faction nonetheless.”

Megatron did not seem very surprised about this fact. He shook his helm and made a noise of disapproval, turning towards him again. “Yes, over the past few mega-orns we have had a few deserters,” he explained. “Cowards who think that this war is over.”

This left Strike surprised. “Is not this the final battle?” he asked, genuinely confused. “Once the Ark is found and destroyed, have we not won? The Autobots will be defeated, and our revenge will be taken.”

Megatron paused for a moment. “The war is not won until it is ended, Strike,” he said darkly. “Those who have joined the Autobots in hopes of escape have left before it is ended. The Ark is not yet found, not yet destroyed,” he explained, narrowing his optics. 

The answer left him unfulfilled, an empty and pressing feeling still in his chest chassis. “Lord Megatron,” he said, his voice raising a bit as he turned around. “You know I am loyal to you. Never once have I faltered our cause. I have always done as you ask. I have exacted my revenge upon my people many times over,” he said, so many words spilling from his intake it surprised him. He began making gestures, and it was then that he even realized how anguished he sounded. “Yet why must we offline our own?”

Again, the warlord paused. His expression was uncertain for a moment, and he was obviously thinking of how to handle this. Strike let his optics slowly fall to his sides as he watched him, waiting anxiously for an answer. He realized what kind of answer it would be as Megatron carefully crafted it in his helm. The kind that would lead him astray from the actual picture.

“Strike,” he finally said, his voice smooth and assuring once more. He approached the Con, placing a servo on his shoulder plate firmly. “You are indeed one of my most loyal Decepticons. You have stuck by my side and followed my orders to the dot since the very beginning of the war.” He patted him, leaning in closer to his helm, his expression turning more serious and dire. “I trust you. And because I trust you, I need you to trust me.” He slid his arm over the other’s shoulders, giving a false sense of comradery. 

Strike nodded, bottling his words and emotions up the best he could. He knew he was in a dangerous spot, with the warlord this close. He could not afford to upset him. He should never have spoken his doubts in the first place. For now, he would listen, but he doubted it would ease him.

“Many die in sacrifice,” he continued, “but this is not for sacrifice. This is for the greater outcome of the war. Those who we must kill are those who have betrayed us, do you understand?” he hissed, his tone getting darker. “Those who have betrayed us are our enemy! They will trade information, side with those who murdered your loved ones. They are a danger to us.” He pulled away from the Decepticon, still keeping one servo on his shoulder. “It is not murder for the sake of murder. It is for the sake of justice!”

Justice. The word that Strike had lived by ever since his own had been torn from him. Justice for those he had lost. Justice for the life he had lived. Justice for the cause. Yet the more he heard that word, the more it sounded like an excuse or a lie. A word to keep him compliant, to keep him under the ropes. Inwardly, he frowned angrily as soon as he heard the word leave Megatron’s intake, but he acted as if it left him unbothered. 

Knowing he could not disagree, he nodded to the warlord. “I understand, Lord Megatron,” he told him with a bow of his head. “Thank you for consoling me. I will await your next orders ever fervently.” 

Megatron grinned, which seemed more like a smirk to the inwardly torn Con. “Good. Now, get your recharge. You work better when you are well rested.” He patted the shoulder pad once before taking his servo away and turning again, letting Strike know it was now time to leave. 

“Of course,” he answered, dipping forward a little in a bow. “Thank you for your condolences.” With this, he left the room, knowing full well that his recharge would be plagued with the same doubts that were slowly killing him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (as well as pretty much the entire book XD) is dedicated to @Hypewriter! Look forward to continuing this writing challenge with you!


	3. Bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to @Hypewriter for our writing challenge!

“Well done, my good mech,” Megatron rumbled, smiling down at the miner. He relaxed his position, standing straight and sheathing his arm blade. He wiped away the droplets of Energon that spilled from his intake while extending his other servo out to the other.

The Cybertronian, one with no name, was on one knee plate, his clenched fist against the ground. His helm hung a bit as he panted slightly, the needing a rush of air into his weaker vents after such an excursion. His red optics glanced up when his sparring partner offered his servo. Allowing himself a small grin, he took it firmly, grunting as he stood up. “Thank you, Megatronous,” he said with a dip of his helm.

The gladiator shook his friend’s servo firmly once. “But of course. You are learning quickly.” He let go and stood tall, bowing his own helm respectfully. “And I go by Megatron, now. You know how politics are,” he added with a chuckle.

The friend shook his helm, dropping his own makeshift blade at his feet. “I am afraid that I do not, Megatron,” his said, a bit of light-heartedness in his voice. “I am but a simple mech.”

The other chuckled again, reaching out and patting his shoulder plate. “That you are, my friend. However, I do think it would do you well to learn. It has done wonders for me,” he told him, his sharp denta gleaming as he smirked. “You could work by my side to liberate mechs and femmes like us!”

He shook his helm again. “You seem to be doing well with that goal without me. Your friend Soundwave seems like a useful mech for the job. He has already done very well.” He bowed slightly again while Megatron took his servo away. “I am afraid I am not cut out for that sort of thing.”

The mech merely shrugged, rolling his optics a little. “I admire your humbleness, but I believe you are smarter than you let on.”

This time, it was the other mech’s turn to roll his optics, chuckling a little as he turned. “If only street smarts. I am not suited for the higher-class affairs and workloads.” He began to make his leave, although he knew this conversation was not over yet.

Megatron stepped to his side, walking beside him. “Yet you carry yourself as if you are a noblemech!” he pressed. “Trust me, my friend, if not a Politian, you would do well at my side.”

He turned his helm, a relaxed smile over his features as he faced the larger bot. “That is why I continue to train with you and hone my skills. I will use what I have to assist you in whatever you need for your glorious cause.” He raised his clenched fist and placed it against his chest chassis firmly. “I am a faithful follower.”  
The gladiator nodded gratefully. “That you are, my friend. And I thank you for sticking with me.” He patted the smaller mech’s back gently. “You are a great support to me in these times.”

“Of course. However, you seem to have many followers these Orns.”

“Ah, yes, the loyal Decepticons. 

“You’ve given them a name?”

“I’ve given us a name,” Megatron corrected. He stepped in front of the miner, grabbing his shoulders and leaning in closer. “We are a people. We are a faction. Those ridiculous bots in the higher classes and the politics will finally recognize us for who we are, my friend.” His optics seem to look off into the distance, a passionate fire burning within them as he lifted a fist into the air slightly in a triumphant manner. “A powerful force that cannot be penetrated. They will see us as equals, or those even greater than they!”

He felt himself grin a bit wider, though something was not sitting right inside him. “And I am grateful that you are leading us to a wonderful change,” he praised with a nod. “It will be a glorious day when we are finally able to look at each bot as one in the same.” He turned his helm, looking off into the direction where he knew that, in the mines several miles from here, his brothers were returning to work. Imagining them hard at work, supporting one another and struggling as one, gave him a feeling of comfort, a feeling of home. “My brothers will no longer be looked down upon as slaves.”

“None of us will be looked down upon ever again, when I reach the top,” Megatron agreed, nodding his helm and letting go of his friend once more. “Once I and Orion finally face the Council, I will show them that we can no longer be ignored.”

His friend nodded, though he felt a little concerned. The gladiator, unlike him, did not have many companions at his side nearly every Orn. He did not have brothers, hard workers, full supporters to help him with his plan. Those that followed him were merely those that wished for a world like he did, or something similar. They were not family. This was something that made him worry for Megatron. He did not have the same comfort and feelings of home; however dismal they may be. He did not have the same loyalty.  
Which could be dangerous later on. This miner with no name was not well inversed in the rules of politics, but he knew that those with great plans could become corrupted by them. He prayed that would not happen to this leader.

Still, he did not voice this to Megatron. He did want to cause him distress during these times. “I pray that the Orn will come soon,” he replied. “Now, if you do not mind, I must return to my current sector. The overseers will most likely not be happy that I returned late.”

The warrior followed him again, picking up his pace to match the smaller bot’s. “That is why I come with you. Mechs know my name. If they see me with you, I doubt they would give you as much as an earful then if you were without.”

The miner gave him a grateful grin, shrugging and gesturing for him to follow him. Megatron’s optics lit up a little as he followed his friend to the mines. They did not pass many bots in the slums, most of those who lived here at work in the mines. Those that were still wandering the rusting place that could barely be called a city payed no mind to them. It was learned in a place like this that it was wise not to face those you did not know or trust.

The mine this bot was assigned to was near the back of this place, going deep into the planet’s interior. The miners were searching for more raw Energon deposits, like always, but their latest task was to also search for healthy metals that could be cut out and used for forged bots and/or upgrades. This was hard work for any miner, no matter their skill. Metals that special were difficult find, and even more difficult to cut out properly. As the two mechs approached the entrance, they could hear the drills at work and the tillers clearing more area for them to mine through.

An overseer was at the entrance, like always. He had a cup of high grade in his servo, swinging it around slightly as he leaned against the pillar the signified there was work here. Slicktires was a slim mech but got burlier near his neck and shoulders. He cocked an optic ridge when he saw the larger mechs approaching, standing up a little taller. 

“You’re late, S-27” he said gruffly to the miner. His optics slid over to the larger silver mech that stood at his side. His yellow optics widened slightly when he recognized him, standing up to attention quickly and dropping his high grade. “M-Megatronous, sir!”

The titan seemed to stare at him for a moment, a cold gleam in his optics. Suddenly, he plastered a grin over his derma and waved his servo once in a dismissive manner. “I go by   
Megatron now. And please, drop the sir. I am only rallying our kind, not yet leading them.”

To this, even the miner had doubts, but Slicktires seemed a bit relieved by this. “Of course. I’ve read your articles and speeches,” he added after a pause. “They are quite inspiring.”

“Thank you,” he replied simply. An awkward silence stretched for a moment while the three of them stood there.

“Ahem,” Slicktires finally started. “So, what brings you here, Megatron?”

“Ah,” he said, as if he had forgotten. “Right. I am only here to escort my friend here back to his job. He was busy with me and lost track of time. My apologies for his tardiness.” He patted the miner on the back again, his icy gaze leaking fake apology to the overseer as he grinned coldly at him.

“Oh, of course,” the other bot replied hastily, waving his servo. “No problem then. I’m sure he was needed for something.” He turned his helm to the dark blue bot, narrowing his optics. “Well, you’re here now. Get to work!” he said, his voice raising a little.

He raised his optics to face him, nodding without so much of a flinch, smiling politely. “Of course. I will get to it right away,” he told him. He nodded to Megatron and left the two of them to whatever conversation they could manage to hold, stopping by the supply closet to pick up his designated tools. 

A young miner, constructed cold in a young frame, looked up when he heard him approaching. His helm was dirty from rust, but his yellow optics lit up when he saw him coming. “Brother! You’ve returned!” he said loudly. He let go of his drill with one servo and waved cheerfully. “We were wondering where you were!”

The other miners that filled the area looked up when they heard the young one speak, their expressions lighting up when they saw him coming. They greeted him with similar greetings, waving and dipping their helms. A few of them got rowdy and tackled him with gruff pats and shoulder bumps. Their brother laughed and joked with them, shoving them back and returning their greetings. His spark felt like it was growing inside him as his family surrounded him. 

Then something changed.

The faceplates of his brothers and sisters suddenly became fuddled, as if they were smudged. The miner froze as silence fell upon the mine, knowing something was terribly wrong. Slowly, the faces changed. They changed to bots of the future. They were the faceplates of the dead, the ones that he had sent to the Well of Allsparks. They stared at him with cold, dead optics, grey and seeming to seep into him. Dried Energon began to leak from their intake, and their frames began to change as well. They were now becoming the Autobots he had murdered just that Orn, their battered frames falling to the floor, Energon pooling around his pedes like a flood.

Strike looked around in panic, his spark beating rapidly and his vents beginning to become strained. He knew this was a dream now, a memory. A memory colliding with his conscience. The Energon began to rise around his pedes, the frames of the offline becoming sinking into it. He heard a cry of fright and he turned his helm sharply, gasping heavily. The young miner now had a Decepticon insignia on his chest chassis, and the face of the young Con who had tried to escape him earlier stared at him in horror. His breath quivered in terror, and Strike suddenly realized he was holding his blaster in his servo, the index digit hovering over the trigger.

“No!!” he screamed to himself. He did not want to kill him again! The young one was one of his own!

“Please!” the young Con cried, but to no avail. Strike found himself, horrified and filled with pain and anger towards himself, pulling the trigger. The split second seemed to slow down and the Decepticon was forced to watch the blast slither through the air of his dream. The mechling’s expression looked betrayed and beyond terrified, just before the shot tore directly through his spark chamber. A guttural scream, one that seemed to echo in Strike’s mind and bring back thousands of dead voices, was brought forth from him from the depths of his frame. Wet Energon sprayed everywhere, once again staining Strike’s servos and chassis, while his optics flew into the back of his helm, and the youngling fell back into the pool of Energon and melted away.

Strike stood motionless, staring at the blaster in his own servo. His spark felt like it was breaking inside, his soul tearing itself apart with inner turmoil. Though no sound came from the dead around him, he could hear the horrible screams of the past, ringing through his processor louder and clearer than his own thoughts. His body finally jerked, throwing the blaster into the swamp of lifeblood. The Con fell to his knees, the blue splashing around him. He gazed up at the emptiness above him, stricken to the core. Finally, another scream came, but this time it was his own. He clutched his helm, his talons breaking through the armor, though he could not feel physical pain in his dream. The scream was pulled from his voice box, loud and pathetically raw with emotion. The screams, his scream, his doubts, and his past all swarmed around in his processor. One thought, no matter how loud the others were, remained strong, like it always did.

How was he any better than the murderers that had taken his world away?

Strike sat up in his berth suddenly at the sound of rapping at the door. His vents, already strained from the poisonous air of their planet, felt like it was heaving out of his chest as he gasped for air. It felt like the dream had suffocated him, nearly choked the life out of him. For a klick, all he saw was red, his frame shuddering a little. He forced himself to breathe slower, his chest chassis heaving in and out. He closed his optics in hopes of calming himself, though it helped little. 

What really snapped him out of his deathly trance was the knocking on the door, more pressing this time. “Strike?” came a voice, annoyed and tired. 

He didn’t recognize it, but he knew he would not be disturbed if it was not important. He rubbed his temples, swinging his legs over the berth and sighing heavily. He sat hunched over for several more klicks, trying to fully regain himself. The one outside the door knocked again, more rapidly and urgently. “Give me a nanoklick, please,” Strike said gruffly, his voice to tired to bark in annoyance. It took him a bit more time to get himself to relax more, though not fully. Taking an intake of breath, even though it hurt, he finally stood and approached the door.

“About time,” the Vehicon said when he opened the door. Strike could almost see the heavy frown he held behind his mask and the narrowed optics behind the visor.

He simply threw him a cold glare, the corner of his lip turning up a bit. “Why do you disturb me?” he growled, threatening to close the door again. 

The subordinate realized his mistake, backing off a little. “Orders, sir. Megatron has another task for you. Soundwave placed the location on the datapad,” he told him, his voice trailing off a bit as he hastily handed him the device. 

Strike took it, raising an optic ridge. He said nothing else as the Con turned and left, his pace a little quickened. He sighed and shook his helm, closing the door again and turning his back to it. He lifted the datapad up a bit, tapping it to bring the screen to life. 

Time to begin.


	4. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated once again to the wonderful @Hypewriter for our writing challenge!! Sorry its been so long!

For several Joors, Strike had only come across empty landing areas and abandoned pods. No sign of activity. No sign of what he was looking for. Despite how keen his optics were, even high up in the atmosphere traveling at high speeds, he had found nothing out of the ordinary. It was quiet, and it both made him relieved and unsettled at the same time. He found himself growing a little frustrated, especially since he knew how important his task was. 

The Decepticon admitted that he had been a little surprised by Megatron’s latest order. Back in his room, he had allowed a small gasp to escape to escape his derma as he read the instructions on the data pad. He knew he was equipped for any task, that Megatron saw him as one of his finest soldiers, and closest friends, if he allowed himself any. However, Strike had his doubts that he would be able to handle this task all on his own.

Especially now, when his mind and spirit seemed to be tearing themselves in two. 

Strike flew for another Orn without spotting a single thing out of the ordinary. Not even a small Autobot camp seeking refuge somewhere or searching for an escape pod. The dying planet seemed more dead than ever, the only life he could sense being his own. It left a pitting feeling in his systems, making him shudder in the sky. The atmosphere around him seemed to grow darker around him, turning into a thick black smoke that swallowed him whole. The stars no longer shone in his vision as darkness consumed it. He felt his processor twist within him, felt his engines begin to falter. 

'No,' he thought to himself, struggling against something he did not quite now how to stop. 'Not now!'

His thoughts a mess and his helm a blur, he transformed into his biped mode rather suddenly without meaning to. He gripped his helm with his claws and grit his denta, barely able to recognize that he was free falling in the air. All he could see was red swirling in the darkness of processor and hear the screaming of the offlined in his audio receptors. He shut his optics tightly and cried out through his gritted denta, flailing around to try and make it leave him. This darkness, this fury, this loss, this pain.

“No!!” he screamed into nothing; his voice swallowed up by the wind gushing as he fell. “Leave me alone! Please, haunt me no more!! Brothers, please!”

The shrieks he heard grew louder and sharper, darker, and angrier. These were no longer cries of pain, but cries of sorrow and rage. He finally let loose a cry of his own, one more mournful and full of emotional agony than he had ever let go, even when his bond-siblings had all been killed. 

'Brothers.' 

'Sisters.'

'Why do you torment me?'

That Orn had started out like the past few mega-orns. Planning, hoping, and praying. S-27 was with his brothers and sisters in the mines. They still slaved away, but their work was not so much work anymore. It was preparations. The miners were slaving, but not in the way that the superiors thought they were. Megatron, the leader of the rising movement of Decepticons, had passed an order through S-27 some time ago to prepare for a big strike against their oppressors. For many, many Orns, they had toiled away in the mines, still gathering enough to make it look like they were doing their ‘job’, but also making a secret tunnel that would pass through a few cities. 

S-27 toiled away with them. He had not trained with his friend Megatron for a long time, nor even seen him since he had given him the order. He liked to think that he was bravely rallying troops and fighting against the Autobots up top. Sometimes, he could tell when there was battle. In the late Orns of their work, the miners could here the whining and clashing of metal above them. They would hear shots being fired and the ground above them rattling from marching. 

That Orn, they were working once more, but even more vigorously. They had gotten far in their many mega-orns of struggle, but not as much as they would have liked. At that time, they were pushing themselves to the brim to get farther, in order to please their savior. S-27 was working beside one of his oldest friends in the mines.

The bot was silent for several Joors. It made S-27 worry for some time. Finally, when they took a short break to refuel with what small provisions they had, he asked his friend what was bothering him. He had looked up to him with a tormented face.

“You do realize what time we are in,” he had said sorrowfully, his low voice trembling. 

The young miner had tilted his helm, confused. “We are in a time or revolution!” he exclaimed passionately. “We are moving towards our liberation, or freedom, or world of equal rights!”

The friend had scowled and pointed upwards sharply. “Does that sound like peace? Equal rights? Freedom for everyone!?” He shook his helm and took the rest of his Energon. “No. That up there? That is battle. That is cruelty.”

S-27 was surprised, but he felt himself falling into doubt. “We do what we must to get our point across! Once they see that we are like them that we deserve their rights, we will no longer have to fight!” he said quickly, trying to pick himself back up. “Megatron has soon promised that he will liberate our camp, free of us our captors! Why do you wallow in doubt?”

The other bot suddenly stood, menacing even though he was not as tall. “Because Megatron has brought us into a fight! That is not freedom! He is pushing us towards death!” he roared. He had now caught the attention of many other miners, who all listened intently. “I have my doubts, and for good reason. Megatron may have preached equal rights, but if that was what he truly wanted, he would have stuck to Orion’s ways!”

S-27 flinched. He had only met the young archivist once, and had heard of his betrayal by Megatron himself. Something about the story had seemed off.. but he trusted his gladiator friend and his savior more than some misunderstandings in stories. 

“What’s going on up there? That’s not a fight for equal rights! That is our so called ‘savior’ acting out in savagery, in revenge! He doesn’t want us to stand alongside them!” the bot continued, his chassis shaking with rage and angst. “He wants to drive the Autobots, all of Cybertron, under his heal! He wants to rule, wants to place his will over all of us. Can’t you see he’s getting RID of those who stand against him?” He shook his helm and turned his back, taking some vents to try and calm himself down. Evidentially, the musty air in the mines made him cough a little. “All of you are blind to the truth. This is not some riot. Some way of proving a point.”

The miner turned his helm to glare at them over his shoulder plate. “This is war.”

Silence fell over the tunnel. S-27 could practically hear the cogs in everyone’s processors turning. He felt his own reeling with thoughts. What his friend said.. could it possibly be true? Were the Decepticons turning into the oppressors they were fighting against? What was Megatron really preaching? Was his friend.. really just using them for his own goals?

A sharp but distant whistling sound snapped everyone out of their thoughts. They all looked up to the roof above them, wondering what was going on up top. The sound was something unfamiliar to them, but it put a sinking feeling in S-27’s tanks for some reason. The sound grew louder and louder, making them uneasy, and it felt like something terrible was about to rain down on them. 

The first explosion had barely begun to sound when the other miner who had been arguing with them suddenly leapt over to S-27. “Get down!!” he screamed, his voice lined with terror as he slammed the younger miner to the ground. Not even a second later, heavy and terrible noises erupted into everyone’s audio receptors. 

All S-27 could hear was the horrible cries of agony and death that shrieked around him like a thousand sirens. It made his tanks sick and he wanted to erupt upwards to see what was going on. He felt fresh Energon beneath him for a moment, then the sensation of everything falling on him at once. 

Darkness crawled over his processor. He did not know for how long. 

Then there was a small light. 

S-27 jerked, his optics flying open as he gasped for air to satisfy his vents. They felt like they were clogged with dust and dirt and pebbles. Something was stuck in his arm, shooting pain up his nanites. He felt himself panicking a bit, but tried to keep himself level-headed. He knew something was on top of him, possibly several things. Using is free arm and his legs, he pushed the heavy metal contraption off of his chassis with a grunt. His vision was cut off by what seemed to be the roof, but it looked like it had shattered into several dangerously heavy pieces. Thankfully, none had crushed him. 

Feeling his spark sink, he looked over to what was stuck in his arm. His optics flew open and a horrified scream left his derma as he stared at what seemed to be a bot’s elbow piercing his armor and protoform. In a wretched panic, he quickly reached over and yanked it out of him, letting Energon flow from his wound. He sat upright in a blur, taking in his surroundings. 

All around him was death. 

He screamed again, grabbing his helm and squirming backwards in terror. In every direction, there were the dead chassis’ of miners, crushed by the ground that used to be above them. Some were burnt beyond recognition, and that’s when he realized that there were small fires blazing around him. Limbs poked out of the debris, melted metal spread across them. He saw with horror that the thing he had pushed off of him was the bot that he jumped on top of him. The miner that had been arguing angrily at him not long ago had protected him with his life. Grey, lifeless optics stared into nothing, making S-27 so sick that he purged his tanks violently. 

The young miner slowly got up, not able to stand up straight because of the rubble around him. He frantically began searching for a way out, doing his best to look away from the death all around him. It was nearly impossible, and it made him want to purge again. Was he destined to offline down here with his brothers and sisters? But what had happened? Who had done this to them? He felt anger suddenly bubble in his chassis, and he grit his denta. Coolant began to brim in his optics, making his vision blurry. Rage beginning to boil within him, he started pulling bit of the roof away with his servos, kicking away smaller pieces of metal and making a clearing for himself. 

Finally, he made a hole big enough for him to crawl through. He was leaking Energon from his arm and some indents he had made in his servos, but he didn’t care. He pulled himself out of that hellhole as quick as he could, hopping up to the surface and looking around him frantically. 

For miles upon miles, over the tunnel they created, the mines they had worked in for so nearly three Vorns, there was destruction and death. The sky and ground around him was red with fire and black from the smoke. His vents screamed for clean air, but he couldn’t make himself move. He could see the Energon splattered everywhere. He could see bots impaled by the roof. Burnt limbs, dead optics, and chassis bent and twisted in awful ways. Gasping shakily, he fell to his knee plates, staring numbly at the area around him. He didn’t know how long he was there, but eventually his emotions overcame him.

Grabbing his helm so hard he nearly left dents, he thrust his body back and let out a guttural, mournful, and terrible screech of agony. He felt his processor tearing itself apart and then pulling itself back together over and over again. No matter where he looked, all he could see was red and the blackness of death. The scream seemed to erupt from his chassis like a siren, lasting longer than any other scream he had ever heard. It eventually died in his throat, and he slumped forward, trembling and sobbing tightly. 

For what seemed like Orns, he sat there, his processor an aching mess and his chassis violently shaking with loss. Eventually, he tore his grip away from his own lap and forced himself to stand. He nearly tipped over, suddenly feeling very weak, but he was not done yet. He looked up, his optics narrowed darkly. A whole new aura seemed to seethe from him, emitting a fury unleashed like a chained beast who had been freed from his chains. He turned his helm sharply, looking for any signs of life. He was surprised when he saw a crowd growing in numbers in the distance. He immediately turned and sprinted in that direction, holding his wound with one servo. 

As he drew closer, he saw a figure standing on a makeshift pedestal, a rumbly voice emitting from it as it spoke to the masses. He realized that it was Megatron, angrily proclaiming something to his followers. He picked up his pace, running as fast as he could.

“Megatron!!” The name tore itself from his throat forcefully. Whether he had meant to call out for his friend or not, he didn’t know. He could barely register anything but unchecked rage in his processor anymore. The only thing he wanted now was answers, and then revenge. 

The warlord turned when he heard his designation being called, his red optics widening in surprised when he saw who approached. He turned quickly just as his friend reached him, grabbing him and helping him stand. “My friend!” he gasped, looking him over. “You’re online!”

S-27 looked up at him, venting heavily, his optics wide and trembling with fury. “Tell me who did this!!” he screamed, staring at him with wild optics. “Tell me who murdered my bond-siblings!! They will pay with their lives, and their screams and Energon will run like a river!!” he shrieked angrily, his whole chassis shaking. 

Megatron just stared at him for a few kliks, for once at a loss for words. Then his expression hardened and his grip on his friend’s shoulder plate grew heavier. “The Autobots,” he hissed, before turning back to the crowd, his optics narrowed. “The Autobots have murdered my friend’s family, everyone he ever loved! They heard of my plan to liberate them, and instead of losing them to me, they decided it was better to send bombs so I could not take them!” he roared, his voice spitting the words. 

The crowd below the two of them yelled in anger and protest, louder than any rally they had ever been to. They pounded their fists in the air and stomped their pedes on the ground, screaming in rage and betrayal. S-27 found himself joining them, letting his own mournful cry join theirs. Megatron growled low, clenching his fist. 

“We cannot, will not, crawl back into our holes after this horrible act of pure selfishness!!” he shouted over them. He raised his servo in the air. “We will rise above them, show them or strength. Show them we will not allow the murder of our friends and follow comrades!! Our voices will be heard, and our revenge will be sweet!” 

Their cry grew even louder, angry cheers erupting everywhere. The silver titan turned to his miner friend, taking his servo in his and holding it tightly. “My friend, I promise to you that you will get the revenge you seek. You will be a terror to the Autobots, a name they speak in pure fear! You will be their death, and I their reaper!” he exclaimed, speaking to S-27, but saying it loud enough so everyone could hear. “Stay at my side, and the Autobots will be yours for the taking.”

S-27 stood straighter, narrowing his optics and clenching one fist. “I swear upon my spark, I will be your most loyal soldier. The Autobots will tremble before me before their deaths, and any that are left will bow before you!” he shouted, earning another cheer from the crowd below. 

“Decepticons!” Megatron roared, turning to the crowd. The raised his servo that was holding his friend’s, pulling both of their arms into the air. “We welcome to our ranks a new bother in arms. He will be known as Strike, for he will Strike a heavy blow against our enemy!”

Cheers seemed to erupt from every corner of the planet, and it made his chest swell a bit. Deep down, something felt wrong. However, at the moment, everything was wrong. And he was going to make it right. 

With the blood of the Autobots. 

A strong force snapped Strike out of his memories, something that shot pain up his chassis. His optics snapped open and he gasped, realizing quickly that he had fallen into something. No, not into. He had just fallen through a roof. He fell a bit more of a distance before he crashed into a hard metal floor, creating such a dent that pieces of the floor shot upwards and scattered around him. He could only gasp a small groan of pain, his chassis growing numb almost instantly. His vision blurred and spun, but he could vaguely see figures around him, growing closer. 

He heard several voices raise in alarm before his everything fell into darkness.


	5. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains suicidal thoughts and a nearly attempted suicide. If you guys have problems with this yourselves 1) Know that you're amazing and loved!! Please don't take your life. It may not be okay right now, but it will be if you keep pushing. 2) and please don't read this if it is triggering for you!
> 
> Hope you all have a great day!! Stay safe out there!
> 
> Dedicated to @Hypewriter for our writing challenge!!

The Decepticon groaned softly as his optics flickered online. Almost immediately, he started to force his systems to online faster, turning his helm to the side to take in his surroundings. The room he was in was silent and dark, only one dim light coming from the hole in the roof above. Most likely the hole he had created. He realized that he was still in the same spot he had crash-landed, his limbs sprawled out around him, luckily missing the jagged edges of the floor that stuck upwards from the collision. The dimly lit room was very empty as well, nearly cleared out completely. Strike narrowed his optics as he looked around, suspicious. He briefly remembered that there were other bots hiding here, having heard them before he temporarily offlined. 

Strike moved to sit up, and that is when he felt his damage. Pain shot up his chassis, the most profound splitting pains coming from his leg and backside. He had barely made a foot of the metal floor before falling back again, letting out a loud grunt. He vented in deeply, letting it out in a stiff hiss through his denta. 

Was this his punishment? Had Primus or Unicron decided he needed to be reminded of something? His inner struggle returned to him, and he closed his optics in frustration. What was wrong with him? Many eons ago, he had been the most true and loyal to Megatron. He never faltered, never wavered, because he was getting what he wanted. Because he was doing the right thing. He was avenging his loved ones, and all the loved ones that his fellow Decepticons had lost. He was fighting for equality!

'What’s going on up there? That’s not a fight for equal rights!'

Suddenly, the words of his close friend returned to him. He jumped at the voice in his helm, startled. 

'That is our so called ‘savior’ acting out in savagery, in revenge!'

'Does that sound like peace? Equal rights? Freedom for everyone!? No. That up there? That is battle. That is cruelty.'

'Cruelty.'

Strike remembered how hard those words had hit him, and several of the other miners down there with him. Back when he had no designation, no doubts, and a security in his thoughts. But at that moment, doubt had come. He had, for a split second, believed that maybe there was cruelty in their actions. Was that when the real doubt had begun? 

>“He wants to drive the Autobots, all of Cybertron, under his heal! He wants to rule, wants to place his will over all of us. Can’t you see he’s getting RID of those who stand against him?”<

Those words… they had practically been a prophecy. Strike remembered that over time, Megatron had really revealed that he no longer wanted the Decepticons and Autobots to be treated as equals. He remembered that it had caused a lot of discourse in some camps, but Strike had been ordered to take care of that quickly and quietly. 

He had never once asked questions. 

The fallen Decepticon grit his denta, cursing under his breath a little. What was he fighting for anymore? Revenge.. revenge had been his answer in his blind rage and confusion. Where had it gotten him? He had more blood on his hands than those who had killed them. He was not fighting for equality. For freedom. For honor. 

He had been fighting for blood. 

Strike suddenly shouted in rage, shooting up into a sitting position. He did not care about the agony that flew up his chassis again. He reached down to his hip, snatching his blaster off its hook, shot his arm upwards and shot, all in a split second. He vented heavily in anger, staring at where the blast had hit. Then his vision cleared and he jumped a little. 

The shot had scorched the wall next to a large entrance, the metal singing and sparking while smoke rose in little wisps. And in that entrance, stood a small bot, frozen with shock and staring at him with wide, terrified optics. Strike gasped a little and lowered his weapon, having had no idea another bot was nearby. He had never heard him coming, never sensed a presence near. He had been so caught up in his thoughts he hadn’t heard anything approaching. 

The bot was obviously a two-wheeler, small in size and thin in stature. He was a rusty orange color, with bits of white and red as his secondary colors. He had two antennae sticking out from both sides of his helm, and was stockier in the chest. His faceplate was young and simple, and he had two bright teal optics with green specs. On his chest was a red Autobot insignia, faded but very visible. He continued to stare at him, but his expression relaxed just a little over a few kliks. 

Strike growled gruffly and raised his blaster to fire again. His digit had reached the trigger when he suddenly stopped, his servo beginning to tremble. What was he doing? This bot was so young. Was he really about to put more blood on his hands? And for what reason?

Revenge was no longer sweet. 

His optics wide and his derma parted, he held the blaster in midair for several breems, his chassis trembling with both doubt and pain. Finally, he sighed shakily and lowered his arm, his helm sagging. He let his servo fall to his side, the blaster falling from his grip. He stared at his own lap, biting his derma. Why was he here? What good was he? He no longer wanted to be part of either side. He know longer trusted one of his oldest friends. The ideals he had always gone by were flawed and no longer gave him the satisfaction it once did. He was a murderer. A wretched bot with no real purpose. Venting heavily, he felt his sparkbeat pick up, and terrible thoughts began to fill his processor. He no longer cared to fight them. 

He reached for the blaster again, grabbing it and slowly lifting it up. He slid the barrel of the gun against the side of his helm, his digit stroking the trigger gingerly. He shut his optics tightly, feeling coolant sting in the corners. He vent hiccupped a little, making him feel even more pathetic. He shouted through still grit denta at himself, his vents feeling like they were being crushed from the inside. His digit began to pull the trigger. 

There was a loud blast, and metal clanging. 

For a moment, Strike thought it was all over. Then he felt a stinging sensation in his servo, and heard his vent hitch slightly. Confused and startled, he opened his optics and shot his helm upwards, looking for an answer. 

The young orange bot had transformed his servo into his own blaster, aimed directly at him. His expression was panicked, and he was venting heavier as well. Had he... shot Strike’s blaster out of his own servo. The Decepticon was both surprised and impressed, but also confused. Why? Why would an Autobot save him?

The bot suddenly sprung forward, startling Strike. He began to react, but pain made his movements slower. The bot suddenly fell to his knee plates in front of him, shoving the Decepticon’s servos away as they reached out to push him away, and raised one servo in the air. Had this bot only saved him to kill him with his bare servos? He no longer had the will to fight for life; he closed his optics and prepared for the blow. 

He heard metal clang against metal, but there was no sharp pain, no sensation of death. He opened his optics and looked up, surprised once again. He slowly began to feel the pain on his cheek, and his derma twisted up in shock. He lifted his servo and lightly cupped the place that stung. Had this bot just… slapped him?

“What in the name of Cybertron were you thinking?!” the orange bot yelled, suddenly finding his voice. He no longer looked afraid of Strike. Rather, he looked angry at him. “What makes you think you can just shoot yourself in the helm like that, you fraggin’ malfunction!”

The Con could only stare at him, not able to find words. He opened his derma to speak several times, but nothing came out. He blinked at the orange bot several times. 

“Hey!” the other one shouted, narrowing his optics at him and frowning even deeper. “Answer me, slaghead!” he cried, taking his shoulder plates and shaking him. 

This sudden movement shot pain up Strike’s backstrut, making him wince and hiss sharply. The bot immediately realized his mistake and stopped, grimacing a bit himself. 

“Sorry,” he muttered roughly, still looking frustrated. “But seriously, stop being so dumbfounded and answer my fragging question!”

Strike was still silent for a few more kliks, before he eventually came to his senses. He grunted and shoved the bot off of him, narrowing his optics and looking away from him. The orange bot obviously did not appreciate that. He gently kicked Strike’s arm with his pede, placing his servos on his hips. “Come on! Quit being difficult, will ya? I could have left you here, but I didn’t!”

This peaked Strike’s interest a little. He turned his helm and stared at him with deep, menacing optics. “And why didn’t you?” he growled, gesturing to his blaster on the other side of the room. “Why didn’t you take my weapons? Leave me here to offline?” He set his servo in his lip and glowered at him. “You must know who I am.”

The orange bot scowled and crossed his arms. “Yeah, I know who you are. You’re Strike, a Deception, and a scary one at that.”

“Then why did you not flee?” the other shot back.

“The others did. They said you weren’t worth it. Even if you weren’t the guy you are, they said you were too damaged to be useful anyway,” the bot said darkly, shaking his head in frustration. “Malfunctions, all of them!”

“How so?” Strike argued. “It seems rather logical to leave a danger behind.”

The orange bot gaped at him, before slapping his fore-helm and groaning. “I swear to Primus, you are all slagged in the helm!” He crouched down, his elbow plates resting on his knee plates. “Listen, you malfunction. Can’t you see we’re all dying here? This isn’t about winning the war anymore! This is about surviving!” He sighed and shook his helm again. “All of you are blind to the truth! Can’t we just get along for once and treat better than just lives we can throw out at a moment’s notice? We have to rise above our past if we   
want to get better, not wallow in their mistakes!”

'All of you are blind to the truth.'

Strike froze, his optics staring at the young bot, emotions boiling inside them. His friend had said that once. And it had been true. They had been blind to what was really going on. Strike had been blind to it almost all of his life. The realization hit hard. His chest felt like it burst, and he shuddered violently throughout his frame. He suddenly dropped his helm into his servos, shaking his own helm at himself. 

Maybe it was time to face the truth.

“You are right,” he said softly, his voice trembling. 

The orange mech was surprised, tilting his head. “What?”

Strike took a deep breath, doing his best to keep calm. “I… have ignored what is real all this time. I am no better… than those who murdered them.”

He felt a servo gently slide onto his backside, making him jump a little and look up. The young mech was grinning at him gently, nodding. “Hey, it’s good to admit that, ain’t it? And don’t worry. You can still change. Only Megatron’s beyond redemption,” he scoffed. “All of you are his pawns anyway.”

Strike once again was staring. His shoulder plates and chest chassis suddenly felt lighter, like a weight he had been carrying for so long had finally been taken away. He blinked a few times at him, before turning his helm away. He was still ashamed, horrified with himself. He still was angry towards the Autobots for the death of his family. However, they were not the only ones in the wrong. He could slowly come to terms with that, if he tried. 

For the first time in many Vorns, he cracked a small, relieved smile. 

“What are you called, little one?” he asked, his voice gentler. 

The mech frowned, waggling a finger at him. “Hey, I’m no youngling,” he protested. “I’m growing out of my new-build stage!” He grinned, a big hearty one, and patted Strike’s back gently. “But my designation is Pax!”

“Pax,” Strike repeated, looking over to him again. “Thank you.”


End file.
